


Alliance

by Anuna



Series: bad romance [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Name Change, Post Season 2, and a lot of those are grant ward, and she really shouldn't want to sleep with him again, and yet she does, but ward still calls her skye, hate-ish sex, skye has a lot of problems, the smut verse, ward as hellfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since she slept with him, Skye's (<i>Daisy's</i>) life became a never ending sexual frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alliance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainSummerDay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSummerDay/gifts).



> A sequel to [the only thing that looks good on me (is you)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4178757).

There's a twitch between her shoulders just before she pulls the trigger. Bang, she thinks as the bullet hits the target and wills her muscles to loosen, but it's a futile attempt. She feels like she's been tense for an eternity, and she's not particularly inclined to think about why that's the case. She leaves the gun in the shooting range and decides to leave the punching bag out of her schedule. She's sure May would shake her head at her. She's sure her other former SO, the one she's pointedly trying not to think about, would react in a fully similar way. That's an irony all in itself, that two people who would probably rip each other apart if put in the same room, would be of the same mind about her skipping her training.

 

So many former things in her life.

 

There's only so much she can wish for herself and for the peaceful ending of an uneventful, dull day. Just a nice shower and a long drink, but her plans for peace and quiet fly through the window as she runs into Lincoln and the last person she wants to meet.

 

She stops in her tracks, Lincoln looks between her and Ward, who just smirks almost as if he _knows_ how he made her life an absolute hell.

 

And the bitter truth is this: Grant Ward had ruined her for every other man.

 

_Ruined_. Her.

 

“Skye,” he says and that name drips from his lips like some kind of challenge. He takes in her appearance, the hair she can't tie up any longer, the sweaty shirt clinging to her and she imagines he mentally licks his lips. (It's what she does when her eyes skim that damn jacket and the black henley underneath and her mind goes to what's under all of that.) She keenly remembers what those lips did last time she saw him, when he went down on her, and the second she thinks about it, she's wet where she absolutely shouldn't be. Just who told her that fucking him would be a good idea? Oh yes. It was _her_.

 

It's _Daisy_ , she almost retorts but it's useless with him. He would use her former name just out of spite, like he doesn't know that the girl with that name died. He pulled the goddamn trigger. She just glares at him, because she doesn't know if she'd rather choke that smirk off his face or fuck him again. (He doesn't need to know that).

 

Lincoln looks thoroughly uncomfortable, and how wouldn't he? Even if she didn't try sleeping with him while both were drunk and ending up not remembering anything – well, barely anything - from that shameful episode (She does remember calling him Grant and Lincoln leaving her still very much dressed to sleep it off after realizing, despite being drunk himself, that this was a _very bad idea_.

 

There's one thing Ward was right about.

 

Lincoln is too vanilla for her.)

 

When she reaches her room and locks the door, she gives herself a long and thoroughly disapproving stare. Her hair behaves about as well as her sex drive. She wonders if this is the new person she's trying to be – because all she wants is to have Ward's dick inside her. And that's the last thing that should be happening.

 

She could go out, drive to the nearest town and get laid for the night, only that wouldn't help at all. (She tried that too. She either fucked guys who couldn't measure up to Ward or the tension she carried would still be there no matter how many orgasms she had, which boiled down to the same thing: her life, after fucking Grant Ward, turned into a case of neverending sexual frustration.)

 

Maybe she should revisit her date with the punching bag.

 

*

 

Just as she predicted earlier, the punching bag does absolutely nothing for her. She still beats it, out of principle, and in hope she'll exhaust herself enough to pass out. Peace and quiet and all that is overrated anyway.

 

But then in walks the bane of her existence, still wearing his tac gear and sporting a smirk she'd like to slap off his face. Only that would show him he's still pissing her off, so she stubbornly settles on ignoring him.

 

As if that can help. He came here with the single goal of getting on her nerves.

 

“You're still doing it wrong,” he says. Frankly, a comment like that one is not what she expects. She huffs out a breath, catches the old and worn punching bag (her base of operations is a hole compared to the Playground's fancy equipment, but it's hers, and it's safe) and barely spares him a glance.

 

But then she sees a bruise along his cheek – ever since everything went to hell and she found herself struggling to bring people to safety, and Ward has become an unexpected ally she still doesn't trust, every time she sees him he's sporting new scars, like he's saying he's carrying them all for her and for whatever goal she has set in front of herself.

 

And it pisses her off. Who gave him the right to fight alongside her?

 

( _We need allies, Daisy_.

 

Shut up, Lincoln, she thinks.)

 

She rolls her aching shoulders. “I didn't ask for your opinion,” she says.

 

“Well maybe your muscles will have an opinion about you punching that bag wrong,” he says. “ _Skye_.”

 

It's like someone has flipped a switch and his voice sounds exactly like she remembers it from the beginning, and he's grabbing the bag and raising her gloved hands and for a single brief moment she's his rookie again. Except he throws _Skye_ to her face and she's feeling momentarily furious, because _who gave him the right_.

 

(He's doing it to help. He's always trying to help. He was trying help when you shot at him four times.

 

_Shut up_ , she tells herself.)

 

“You won't help yourself with all that stubbornness,” he says like he's tired.

 

“That isn't your business either,” she says, and part of her reason is telling her to pick up her stuff and just leave because spending time with him on her own is not a good idea.

 

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a snort. She whips around to ask him what's funny, except he fixes her with that dirty stare of his and nothing is funny any more.

 

“You still want to fuck me, I see,” he says cockily.

 

Skye ( _Daisy_ ) feels her cheeks heat up.

 

“Don't flatter yourself,” she says.

 

“I don't have to,” he's stalking closer, moving in that cat - like way of his until he's right in front of her and she's realizing she's barefoot and flat on her feet without her usual boots. “I can _smell_ you,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper.

 

“No, you can't, Ward,” she's saying. “You're a liar.”

 

“And you're wet for me,” he states and she hates him because it's the truth and as much as she's trying to come up with a retort, she can't.

 

It's almost as if she _can't_ lie. Not to him. The new name and different hair accomplish nothing. The muscle memory of his fingers sliding into her flares up her skin, her head feels foggy and light when she recalls his hands on her hips pulling her backwards towards him. She can still see her own expression in the bathroom mirror as he fucked her from behind, she can still remember _his_ expression with no small amount of satisfaction. She tries to stomp on those images, crush them to ground, only her face must have given something away because his lips tilt up.

 

Next thing she knows is that his fingers are barely there against her cheek, but his touch feels as if it burns. He plays with her shortened hair.

 

“This neat little gift comes with heightened senses,” he tells her. “I know how you smell, Skye. And it's doing things to me.”

 

His voice is deep and rough and when she looks down, she can clearly see what exactly she's doing to him. Before she can stop herself, she's running a palm down his crotch and her mouth goes dry.

 

“Jam the door,” he says. “I'm sure you can quake them hard enough.”

 

“No,” her voice is saying. It's almost like watching herself in some kind of outside point of view, in slow motion that allows her to question herself without any power to change the course of action. “My room.”

 

She doesn't even know how they get there. His hand feels like it's branding her as he holds it low against her backside. They don't talk and he never touches her anywhere else and her hands shake enough for her to drop the key.

 

Ward picks it up, and she notes how absolutely still his hands are. How he seems sure of himself. He unlocks and opens the door and they're inside, and he's closing and locking the door and before she could contemplate her next step, she is pressing him against the hard wood.

 

And kissing the breath out of him.

 

And he's saying “Skye, Skye, Skye” into her mouth, and it feels like he's breathing the air back into her, the air she never noticed missing.

 

“Shut up,” she says, grabbing him.

 

 

_Shut up, that's not my name, and I shouldn't be doing this._

 

Then she's switching their positions, leaning hard against the door as she's pulling down her sweatpants and her underwear and pushing him down onto his knees in front of her. “Just shut up.”

 

And shutting up he does. He spreads her open and puts his mouth on her, tongue sliding through her folds and up, against her clit and back down and into her; and everything around her blurs as the tension she's been carried since their last time spreads from the spot where his mouth is fused to her. He holds her butt and fucks her so thoroughly that she can't even begin to piece her thoughts together. All there is are his hands and his tongue and fingers and she's struggling to keep staring down at him.

 

She comes few moments later, with his tongue inside of her and his fingers branding her hips.

 

He gets up and she feels like reciprocating. There's no rule in the world according to which she has to put his dick into her mouth, so she tells herself she wants to see him forget his own name. It has nothing to do with how he's calling hers and tugging at her hair as if he's trying it out now when she cut it in front of the blurry mirror in her bathroom.

 

She takes him into her mouth and even lets him dictate the rhythm, and there's something about him moaning that makes her so damn tight and wet again, which is when he stops her.

 

“Bed,” he says. He strips naked while she stumbles backwards and sits down on top of her sheets. He crawls over her a moment later, spreading her open and entering her without any kind of foreplay – but then again, it feels like everything they do is just that.

 

Unfair, prolonged, impossible foreplay.

 

She gasps. He is big and hard and she didn't have any sort of sex in awhile.

 

“How romantic of you,” she says.

 

“I thought you liked when I cut to the point,” he says, moving in and out of her as she makes herself more comfortable on the bed.

 

“I don't like you,” she says, aware that she's switching to a completely different topic, because yes, she likes this blunt version of him. Which is something she's never going to admit out loud. Her hands around him and her tongue in his mouth might imply otherwise, but fuck that. Literally.

 

“No, you just like when I fuck you,” he smirks above her. He's fucking her hard now, almost rough and she's not sure how he does it, how he pushes the limits with her so much and yet doesn't actually hurt her. How he manages to constantly thread that crazy line between right and wrong and never to come out on either side. (All he's ever said to Coulson was that he doesn't give a fuck about forgiveness any more.)

 

She tightens her legs around him, commanding him to fuck her harder and he does. She's gripping her pillow, her sheets, his hair; she's unraveling under him in the way she doesn't with anyone else, and just when she thinks he's about to lose control and come, he bows his head to bite her neck and fireworks explode behind her eyelids. “You like it a lot, right, Skye?” he's saying as he rearranges her to fuck her from behind.

 

She's aware she's actually screaming into her pillow and her bookshelves are all shaking, and her breasts are bouncing until he trusts into her one last time.

 

Later, he kisses her mouth and face and all the way down her body. He stops at her sternum and kisses her scars and his voice repeating Skye, Skye echoes in her mind.

 

Later, she lazily rides him and lets him rub her between her legs until she comes on top of him.

 

Much, much later, while she's falling asleep his hand still glides down and up her back and into her hair.

 

“I think it looks good on you,” he says.

 

And she smiles into her pillow. She absolutely shouldn't, but she does.  


End file.
